


The Fools

by Marmots



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bruce chose Batman over Alfred, Bruce probably needs therapy lets be real, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I genuinely have no idea how to tag their particular relationship so friends to lovers will do, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, theyre gonna get healthy i promise, vigilante joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmots/pseuds/Marmots
Summary: The fallout of the past two years are well and truly starting to chafe at Bruce's mental state, which only gets worse when he chooses Batman over his beloved butler and surrogate father, Alfred. With his public appearances beginning to wane, and a certain isolation drawing him further and further into the familiar embrace of his alter ego, he doesn't want to admit that maybe, just maybe, he misses an old friend he insists to himself barely meant anything.
Relationships: John Doe/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	The Fools

Alfred was gone. A part of him didn’t genuinely believe the man he’d considered his father for so long was now and forever excised from his life in the span of a single conversation but he supposed it was appropriate. Bruce lied a lot in his day-to-day, but not to Alfred, never to Alfred, and he knew better than to promise something he knew he couldn’t keep; Batman was his life, more so than Bruce Wayne ever was whether he wanted to admit it or not. It was Batman or Alfred and he’d chosen Batman, and he knew just as well not to dig too deep into the reasons why. Tiffany had been distressed when she found out, it was the kind of silent sadness Bruce wasn’t sure how to entertain and so it went unsaid. Explanations would feel like excuses and excuses were unacceptable. So they simply didn’t talk about it.

By day he was Bruce Wayne, maintaining the squeaky-clean image that was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. It felt like a futile effort like he was only working against the rumours that had built up over the past two years with his Father and the time he spent in The Pact. Oh, it was so easy to start with trust and good-will, but once it was all gone he didn’t realise just how much harder it was to win it all back. Slowly but surely, he was getting there by being very careful who he spent his time with and showing up to as many charity events as he could. By night, however, Batman watched over Gotham as the silent protector that, somehow, citizens still trusted. The streets were quieter after the incidents of prior years; no bigger, badder villain popped up to stake a claim to the once occupied city. Of course, there was always crime in Gotham, there always would be, and he could usually find it wherever the GCPD was. For now, he was happy to work with Gordon, happy to have Tiffany in his ear, so long as his mind was occupied. But sometimes, when he lay in bed at four in the morning, his mind would drift to… no, it didn’t matter.

Every day was the same. Bruce allowed himself no breaks, no time off, for fear of his mind wandering to what could be. Resentment and self-hatred wasn’t something he allowed himself to experience often; he’d done enough of that as a child, batting his fists against his walls in a futile attempt to bring his parents back. No, it wasn’t a common visitor, but on those nights he couldn’t quell the tsunami of his thoughts, they often went to dark places best left alone. When he became Batman, however, he became Batman. He was the night; gone was the stiff, Ken-like smile he reserved specifically for the press, gone were the suits and ties, gone were the mortal emotions that dragged him down. All that mattered when he put on that mask was he was Batman. Perhaps, in retrospect, that was what his butler had been worried about in the first place.

With Alfred gone, Bruce Wayne was left with very few friends and very little to do in his spare time. There was Tiffany of course, but she was all but a kid, and Avesta certainly wasn’t exactly the type of friend he had known long enough to confide in. The only friend he had in Gordon was through Batman, Oz was in Blackgate, Harvey wasn’t taking his visits and he’d burned bridges so far down to the ground with Selina he doubted he’d ever see her again. John… well, Bruce tried not to think too much about John. It was a dangerous thought to follow and where it went never ended anywhere good. He didn’t want to admit that maybe he missed his old friend, didn’t want to take responsibility for what he’d made the man. Still, some nights were harder than others. When he couldn’t be distracted any longer he would often consider John, what became of him and their friendship, if Bruce could even call it that. He wasn’t a fan of dwelling, that much was true; dwelling meant taking stock of every choice he’d ever made and convincing himself there was some way to change it if only he was better. But he would be better, he often told himself, he had to be.

+

Tiffany gingerly prodded at a bruise on her cheek in the mirror, her face scrunching up with distaste as if that alone would make it go away. Like her face, her knuckles were bruised and scabbed, fingers unsteady as she attempted to come to terms with her new reality. “You really hit hard, you know that?” Came the murmur, the young Fox slowly shaking her head with a resigned sigh. “I know I’m the one who asked for this but that hurt.”

“Sorry,” Bruce grimaced, shaking out his clenched fists and turning away to rifle through the medical supplies already set up on the desk. Hand-to-hand training was going well all things considered; Tiffany was picking it up quickly and there were minimal accidents. He glanced at the young woman and that shiner of hers and winced. Usually. “I thought you were gonna feint.”

Catching the bundle of bandages thrown at her with clumsy hands, Tiffany shot him a petulant frown, one that wasn’t particularly serious in any way. “So did I, but that clearly didn’t work out for me—can you help with this?” Bruce didn’t respond but approached her nevertheless, directing the woman to sit so he could wrap her hands up. Tiffany’s fingers were unsteady, shaking with the type of ache that sets into your bones when you do something you’re body isn’t used to. Her hands were all scabbed and bruised, and a part of Bruce hated that he was putting her through this; he’d promised Lucius that he’d look after his daughter. He shouldn’t have brought her here, into his life like this, into a world he couldn’t possibly hope to protect her from. In the next moment, he blinked away that fear; Tiffany wasn’t out in the streets yet, she wasn’t ready and if he could help it she wouldn’t be for a good long while. “Bruce? You there?”

“Huh? Right. Sorry.” Finishing off the bandage on one hand, he moved onto the other, not quite looking at the Fox girl for fear of guilt edging its way into the forefront of his mind. Bruce paused, let himself frown at the barely-healed scar that cut across her hand. _His fault_ , something in his mind pushed, it was all his fault for putting the girl in danger like this and--he sucked in a deep breath of air in a vain attempt to clear his head. That remorse niggled and nagged, and for a moment Bruce had to stop just to push it back down into the depths of his mind. He'd deal with it later, or preferably not at all. Just as quickly, he continued bandaging Tiffany's hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a bit sore. Are… you? Okay, I mean.”

“I’m fine, Tiffany,” Offering her half a smile, all he could really offer anyone nowadays, Bruce fastened up what remained of the other hand and abruptly stood. “You sure you can’t stay? Be that little voice in my ear tonight?”

“Sorry Bruce, but you know I need to look after my family.” Tiffany wasn’t a naturally harsh woman, no her voice wasn’t sharp and her intentions were never to hurt at least not unless she was hurt first, yet even still Bruce felt the familiar hand of loneliness clutch his heart in a vice-grip. But it wasn’t her fault, he knew that as well as anyone, and he knew her priorities were more important than his currently empty social life. “You know I’ll be here tomorrow but if I’m not there to make dinner for the week I don’t know if mom will eat.”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” Bruce chuckled, “But I thought I may as well try. Go look after your family.” A small smile crawled onto Tiffany’s face, a snort following it, “But just remember to look after yourself a little too. You’re just a kid.”

“You’re one to talk, what are you, like, thirty?” She chuckled, but Bruce could only respond with narrow-eyed confusion. What was she implying? “For a billionaire playboy you don’t have much of a social life, is all I’m saying.”

“What?” Bruce spluttered, unable to form a coherent retort.

“You have, like, one friend—me—and no social life outside your obligations—and as much as I don’t want to think about it when was the last time you even had anything close to a love life? Since Alfred left you’ve kinda just been…” She didn’t allow herself to finish the statement, a purposeful silence pervading the air. Bruce was unable to look at Tiffany, his jaw clenching. He… had friends. He had Tiffany and Avesta and… and… Bruce had trouble coming up with people he knew for sure he could count on, but ‘people he could count on’ and ‘friends’ weren’t necessarily the same types of people, not that his protege and the ex-Agency member weren’t friends, just... Bruce sighed, Tiffany shifted in discomfort, “I guess I’m saying that everything’s quieter now, maybe Batman can rest a few days while Bruce Wayne actually gets out of the house.”

“And if someone like Joker or Lady Arkham shows up? I already have something to…” Bruce’s protest felt feeble on his lips, clumsy like he’d only just learned the words he intended to speak. The Fox girl, to her credit, didn’t flinch at her mentor’s uncertainty. Though he certainly wouldn’t blame her if she did.

“I’m not saying never be Batman again,” Tiffany sighed, “Just that, for now, there isn’t anything he can do that the GCPD can’t. That arson case isn’t the work of a supervillain. Well, anyway, I really do need to go, and I’m the last person who should be lecturing you.” The last part was said with half of a laugh, an awkward cough succeeding it. Glancing at his watch, Tiffany was right. As she turned, she gave him a certain kind of look, one that was equal parts scolding and worry, “And Bruce… just be careful. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Bruce tried to speak, tried to say something that would reassure the woman, but for whatever reason, he simply couldn’t find the words. Instead, he shut his mouth with a click of his jaw and slowly nodded. The Fox girl gave him a smile that reminded him so much of her father, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, instead straining at the corners like a mother who didn’t know if her child was going to come home. It reminded him so much of Alfred’s final goodbye it forced his breath to catch in his throat. He looked away, unable to keep his composure. Quietly, Tiffany bid him goodbye, and without the ability to speak for fear of his voice cracking, Bruce let her go unbothered. When she had well and truly departed he finally allowed himself breath, sucking in a sharp breath and rubbed his hand across his eyes. Perhaps she was right, but that didn’t change his responsibilities. Or his needs.

And right now what he needed were distractions.

+

The wind rustled Batman’s cape as he crouched on the edge of the roof, eyes scanning through the darkness for a light, a flame, anything that would tell him he’s on the right track. Nothing. Perhaps that tip he’d gotten from the last guy he caught was nothing short of a red herring, little more than a trick to catch him off-guard and that he should have been looking in the other direction. Sucking in a sharp breath, Batman bit back the urge to curse.

He’d been searching for weeks for a pair of arsonists that liked to think they were the next big villains Gotham had on offer. They were subtle and they were elusive but they were hardly the dangerous madmen they purported themselves to be. Oh, they had given him a few good fights here and there, but they were never on-par with… well, they weren’t all that. No, they were one young idiot who hung onto every word his accomplice said, and while they’d somehow found their way out of every encounter either through smarts or dumb luck, Batman knew what they looked like now. From what he could tell they were some kind of vigilante group that had a hard-on for fire. Anywhere they deemed unethical they lit up in flame and, honestly, a part of Batman couldn’t blame them.

And so that left him here; atop some pawn shop a couple of stops down from that chain outlet owned by someone notorious for their cruelty to their workers. No, there were many of the same stores he could have watched over, many that would be suitable, but the hired goon he’d caught at the last heist had assured him that this was the place. Batman should have known better than to believe him. If only he—his anger was cut by the sound of a lighter flicked on, echoing footsteps down an alleyway as the hooded bandit strolled through the dark as easily as the Dark Knight himself. With the tiny flame lighting the figure’s way, a cloth mask with a gaping maw printed on is lit up by the sparse lighting provided by the lighter. Batman felt his anger cool in the air, and his body tensed with anticipation.

He waited. Despite the lights at the mouth of the alley, the figure continued to use the lighter no matter how close they drew to the entrance, but Batman didn’t need them to be there when he leapt. It felt as if time slowed to a crawl when he plummeted from his spot on the roof of the Pawnshop, his arms extended to grab for the would-be robber and his cape billowed out behind him. As if by chance (but really, he doubted it), the figure glanced up, then stepped out of the way with deceptive nimbleness. It was only when Batman hit the ground with a heavy thud and a roll did he realise the figure was wielding an axe in their free hand. He jumped up, got a hit in before the bastard could attack first.

The crunch of a nose breaking under his fist sent a thrill through Batman nothing else could top. Were you to ask Bruce later just what about a good street brawl drew him in he certainly wouldn’t be able to say and, honestly, he’d be appalled such a thing was suggested at all, but as Batman, he could tell you exactly what it was that appealed to him. It was the rush of adrenaline; the blood pumping through his veins; the primal excitement that left him feeling energetic and all riled up even after a particularly gruelling duel. Fights like these, with nameless criminals, were simple, easy, they almost made him forget about the enemies that still plagued him, if only in his mind. Penguin, Lady Arkham, The Pact… Joker. Not that he’d ever admit it, to himself or anyone within earshot. Because at the end of the day, Batman knew healthy people didn’t try to kill, or rob, or hurt other people. And maybe healthy people didn’t dress up as bats to fight said people, but that wasn’t something he was willing to consider.

As his axe-wielding attacker lunged at him, Batman feinted to the right, leapt to the left, then gave the guy a sharp jab in the ribcage. There was an audible crack and he grabbed the axe as the guy lost his breath. Twisting his arm painfully, Batman wrenched the weapon from those grasping fingertips and whacked him in the back of the head with the handle. With that, the man collapsed to the ground in a heap of sore limbs and blood. He was finished, but awake—and most importantly alive. Still… Batman’s temper was up and with the axe in hand he could just… he considered the weapon, glanced at the sorry idiot sprawled out in the dirty alleyway, and tightened his grip around the axe handle, raising it above his head as he stared down at his foe… only to promptly throw the weapon away, embedding it into one of the old brick walls that boxed him in.

Day by day Bruce felt himself becoming more and more interconnected with Batman. Day by day those dark thoughts he'd tried so hard to suppress as a child coming back with a certain kind of vengeance he couldn't quite bring himself to tame. At least when he was Batman he could get half of those urges out. As his eyes dragged to the axe stuck in the wall, he sucked in a breath. He had to control himself.

Tying the man’s hands, he searched around inside the pockets of his attacker and found nothing, but his search was delayed anyway by a wheezing cough from the man laid out on his stomach. “We’re in the right, you know.” He rasped, laughter like rabid coughs pushing out from his aching chest. Batman drowned it all out, a familiar anger prickled at the back of Batman’s neck, his eye twitching underneath his cowl. Yet he did not speak, not yet. Most vigilantes tended to be the same, self-righteous morons who didn’t know the difference between real difference and token resistance—they rarely helped any cause they supposedly fought for.

Thoughts of a man once-familiar swirled around in his mind like a hurricane, but he pushed them back for no other reason than fear. Batman didn’t do fear.

The man on the ground protested and squirmed, swinging curses as well as any weapon. It was a normal job, but Batman never liked working with vigilantes; they were too… familiar. Reminded him too much of memories best left well enough alone, of men best left in the past exactly where they belonged. He growled more to himself than the man tied up underneath him. He writhed, preaching to a congregation of silent brick and cement. Batman didn’t listen to the shouting, but it was beginning to sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Standing abruptly, Batman considered planting a heavy boot on the man’s back. Oh, it was tempting, so tempting, but since Lady Arkham, he’d tried his best not to brutalise those he brought in; he knew better than to let personal feelings get in the way. And oh, were personal feelings swimming all around inside Batman’s head—he almost felt like Bruce again. He walked away, hearing a giggle following him as he silently sent Commissioner Gordon the coordinates for the man. Shit, but that giggle echoed around inside, morphed into the maniacal laughter of someone else entirely. He sucked in a deep breath, grappled up to the rooftops where he could gasp for fresh air. Yet in his mind, as he stared down at the man tied and unable to flee, he saw the pale face of an old friend he thought he wasn’t supposed to think about.

At 11:00 PM the night was dragging on longer than he anticipated. It wasn’t typical, but to say it never occurred wouldn’t exactly ring true either. No, on nights when he had no one to guide his thoughts and nowhere to go, Batman had to admit his mind often wondered what it would be like if Bruce Wayne simply disappeared. Closing his eyes, he felt the sounds of Gotham consume him, the screeching of tires, the sounds of car alarms and shouts of passers-by. It was the sounds of Gotham that Batman felt he survived off, the nightly bustle of citizens a calming background noise that helped his mind make sense of his thoughts, separate them from those of Bruce Wayne and those of Batman. And yet every single one of those thoughts was John Doe.

Shit, but Batman blamed himself for Joker; it wouldn’t be the first time someone in his life had made irreparable mistakes after being affected by his choices or the choices of his family. Oz, Harvey, Victoria Arkham… maybe leading others astray was just in his blood. What a fucking concept.

+

“Ow.” Bruce Wayne’s voice echoed through his office early Tuesday morning, bags under his eyes far more prominent than he would have preferred they be. His protege didn’t look much better; that twitch in her eye telling him he better not test her until she at least finished her first coffee for the morning.

“Oh, quit being a baby, Bruce,” Tiffany sighed, smoothing out the makeup Bruce still wasn’t entirely sure how to apply. It was usually Alfred that helped him, but… no, he didn’t want to dwell. He didn’t realise until that morning that at some point in the night someone had given him quite the bruise on his jaw; perhaps it was karma for the accidental beating he’d given Tiffany the day prior, but Bruce knew it for what it really was. He had been distracted and let himself get hit. He was lucky it had only been a fist shot his way. “Seriously, you’d think after all this time in front of cameras you’d be used to makeup by now.”

“I tolerate it, doesn’t mean I have to like it, not with this bruise,” He snorted, but this wasn’t for the cameras. If anyone put two and two together, managed to connect his identity to Batman… well, that thought was better left discarded on the floor where it belonged. “It was just a long night,” he paused purposefully, let a wry smile curl the corners of his lips, “But thanks for worrying, mom.”

“Never talk to me again.” Tiffany huffed, finishing off the hasty coverup job with a childish pout. She’d done a remarkable job on herself in the mirror that morning, too, barely any evidence of that black eye Bruce had gifted her the night prior. He… still felt guilt claw at his throat over that, but guilt wasn’t exactly anything uncommon in him nowadays. “Seriously Bruce, I tell you to be careful then you go and get yourself hurt.”

“I’ve had worse.” He protested.

“That’s not the comfort you think it is. I swear, I leave you alone for three nights a week and the next thing I know you’re half-dead on a sidewalk somewhere. Seriously, get a hobby, or I don’t know, get a friend not connected to any of this. God, I should not be the one who has to tell you this.” Tiffany threw her arms up in the air, evidently washing her hands of him as if he were some kind of failed project. Yet Bruce could only chuckle.

“And how are your friendships going for you?” Bruce couldn’t help but push, chuckling as Tiffany’s face scrunched up in distaste.

“Ugh! They’re—fine! I at least have time left, old man.” He could think of many retorts to that, but Bruce elected, perhaps wisely, to keep his mouth shut. They both knew she was more concerned with her family, and that was most likely for the best. As for Bruce… that was the second time she’d brought up some semblance of companionship; it wasn’t like he’d had time to be the billionaire playboy he apparently was, but it wasn’t as if he’d had the time for it romantic or otherwise.

Maybe, once, with Selina but their opinions of each other had fallen to the wayside and the relationship hadn’t gone anywhere past longing glances in the first place. Bruce sighed, shook his head. Companionship was something he was lacking, Tiffany did have a point. Half of one. ”Okay, okay, I’ll think about it—getting a hobby, that is.” He finally conceded, waving her out of the office. “Now get to work.”

Rolling her eyes with a lop-sided smile, Tiffany wrapped her coffee protectively in her hands and spun on her heel. She took the long walk out of the office, stopping momentarily at the door, “I have some ideas, by the way, for that thing you do after work. But I’ll, uh, talk to you about it later.” Heralded out by an awkward chuckle, Tiffany and her warmth was gone and in their place stood those two stalwart doors. Bruce shook his head with his own weak laugh, loneliness sinking into his bones as he let the silence linger.

Jaw clenched, Bruce pulled open one of the draws to his desk in search of a pen but something stopped him halfway to reaching for it; the sharp corner of a card. Gulping, he gingerly pulled it out and found a frown. That large-eyed kitten was… certainly a choice that John made, the “Get Well Soon” printed on the card like a mocking taunt. Oh, Bruce was certain it was some kind of joke when it was handed to him, what, a few months ago now, but now he knew that was just how John was; he didn’t know what was appropriate and what was not and over the weeks spent together it had gone from an annoyance to something else entirely. He wasn’t sure why he kept it, it was a silly little token that probably shouldn’t have meant as much to him as it did. Bruce felt his shoulders sag; he’d been very intent on not thinking about his time in The Pact, definitely didn’t want to consider his time with John after he’d fucked it up so royally.

Chewing on the inside of his mouth, Bruce considered Arkham, considered whether it was at all wise to unpack everything he’d experienced with an old friend. Oh, it wasn’t as if he didn’t already frequent Arkham in the hopes Harvey might one day agree to see him but… he’d forced himself to ignore the fact that John was there too—Bruce genuinely wasn’t sure what the difference between the two men was, but it wasn’t a case of him never wanting to see John again. The man with that ever-present, clown’s grin had been his friend, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Bruce picked up the phone, scrolled down to that series of numbers that was unfortunately high on his recently-contacted list. "Hello? Yes, this is Bruce Wayne--No need Eva, you know just Bruce is fine." His jaw locked in a tight line, heart beating hard in his ears. Just momentarily his tongue stuttered on a word, "N-no, er, not Mr. Dent, no." The surprise in Eva's voice was palpable, enough to make him wince as he mulled over the next few words. God, but he _could_ make the request (order, really); he paid half of Arkham's utilities as it was, but... _should_ he? The silence stretched on and Eva stammered his name like she wasn't sure whether or not the connection had cut out. He shouldn't be doing this--Eva was asking his name into empty air now, louder--he shouldn't--ah, fuck it. "No, no, sorry I, ah, was looking to visit a John Doe? Yes, that's his legal name." A pause, "Yes. Um, no take your time. No, that's fine. Mostly private, preferably." It was too late now, no backing out unless he wanted to call again and cancel the visit. Bruce sucked in a sharp breath as if to do just that. And in a blink it was done. "Okay, Eva, thank you. See you next Wednesday."

Bruce let his phone drop to the desk like it was burning coals, staring at his reflection in the blackened screen and meeting disgusted, pale blue eyes. Just as quickly, he looked away, collapsing back into his chair with a heavy sigh.

Wednesday. _Fuck_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I keep making edits to it since I finished the damn chapter a few days ago and at this point I just need to post it or else I never will. I say then proceed to make edits to it for the next week.
> 
> So ANYWAY welcome to my new fixation that exists entirely because I have zero self-control and I just think this series is neat.


End file.
